


Civil Hands

by littledust



Category: bare: A Pop Opera - Hartmere/Intrabartolo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Nadia own a little private detective agency in New York City. In walks Jason in pursuit of a missing fiance... or so it seems. How many secrets can one man conceal?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Civil Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for cobaltink in the Small Parts Fest. I've chosen to use the Wikipedia spelling of Peter's last name rather than the AO3 tag's. Thank you to Fahye, who jokingly tossed out the idea of a noir AU and then let me run away with it. Thank you also to the people who looked this over for me. I'm no great noir expert, but I do love music of the time period and Who Framed Roger Rabbit.

Peter wakes to the sun spilling between his blinds, insistent as the other components of a New York City morning: the traffic, the coffee, the business of living. Late August heat blankets him long after he peels away his single sheet and heads over to the sink to splash some water on his face. The mirror catches him as he hangs up his towel. He pokes his tongue out at the bags under his eyes.

"You're an old soul, Pete, and you finally look the part," he says to the mirror, affecting his old sergeant's Midwestern twang. He wonders what Turner is up to in Wisconsin, wonders if even at the tail end of summer it's as frozen as Turner made it out to be. Silly thought. He needs breakfast and a smoke, not necessarily in that order.

The door to Nadia's bedroom is open and the kitchen is deserted, which means she's already in the office, and doubtless has been for the last hour. The pictures make detective work out to be the stuff of nighttime, but early in the morning is when the people who have been up all night come knocking on their door. He and Nadia make a decent living for themselves, though it's more catching cheating spouses and tracking down missing people. Nadia's the one who lives for the work--it was her who founded their agency by cracking a murder case when the police were helpless. Peter's just there to provide some post-war male authority. Shame that a gal like Nadia depends on somebody like him.

The thought of frying an egg in the already overheated apartment makes him wince, so he pads into the kitchen and slathers some marmalade on a piece of bread. Close enough to breakfast. Nadia left enough coffee for him in the pot, bless her sainted soul. Mug in hand, Peter heads out onto the fire escape for a cigarette. The smell makes Nadia cough, so he tries not to do it in the apartment. Besides, on a good day the breeze blows the smell of the bakery down the street their way. It's a nice way to finish waking up.

Today the smell of bread is thick in the air, mingling with the smoke and the ever-present car exhaust. There's the inevitable whiff of trash as well, but Peter tries to ignore that. Someday he'll have an apartment way up in the sky, where he'll have a view that goes past the buildings directly across the street. God will be the only one able to peer through his windows.

As Peter takes one last drag of his cigarette, a cab pulls up in front of the apartment complex. He can't see much of the man who steps out, just a tan fedora and shirtsleeves rolled up in deference to the heat. His stride is quick, agitated. Peter crushes the remains of his cigarette on the fire escape's railing. He better get dressed and head downstairs to the office; looks like he and Nadia have a case.

*

"Morning," Peter announces as he pushes open the door to McConnell & Simmonds, and then he catches a glimpse of Nadia with her arms around the man from the cab. "Sorry!" he calls, cheeks flaming, and shuts the door again. Good for Nadia, anyway. One of them ought to have some luck with men.

"My brother's here!" Nadia calls through the door, and he can _hear_ the roll of her eyes.

"Oh." Peter opens the door and actually steps into the office this time. Nadia shakes her head at him, arms folded over her chest. The man from the cab has taken a few steps back, hat in one hand and the other outstretched in greeting.

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Jason McConnell, Nadia's brother," he says. The polite smile doesn't reach his eyes, but that doesn't really matter. By God, the man is gorgeous, tall and golden like he just stepped out of some Hollywood pool party. Peter says something inane as he shakes Jason's hand, keeping his grip firm but not too familiar. It took serving in the war for Peter to master the art of the manly handshake; Jason seems a natural.

"I was hoping you two could help me," Jason says, taking off his hat. Peter tears his eyes off the man long enough to note the suitcase propped up against the wall. "My fiancee's gone missing. I have reason to believe she's somewhere in the city."

"The fiancee who couldn't make Christmas dinner," Nadia grumbles, but she has her pad of paper in hand, meaning her mind's already on the case. "To catch you up: my brother met Diane Lee at Saint Mary's when he first started at Notre Dame. He's terrible at keeping in touch, but his letters are always Diane this and Diane that." She holds up a small photo of a dark-haired girl with a smile like a glass of lemonade on a hot day..

"She left me a note," Jason says, holding out a scrap of paper. Peter accepts it and turns it over, filing away details. It's ordinary stationery, folded and unfolded several times, and the message written neatly on one side reads: _See you in New York City._ There's no hint of an address or telephone number.

"Does she have any friends in the city?" Peter asks, refolding the paper and exchanging a look with Nadia. Her gorgeous brother looks to be the victim of a runaway bride, but he doesn't have the heart to say, _Sorry, Romeo, your Juliet's flown the coop._ Neither does Nadia, from the looks of it, which is no surprise. She doesn't speak much of her family, doesn't even keep any photographs in the office, but the only member of it she speaks well of is her brother.

"Not that I know. She's a quiet girl, a good girl. Lived her whole life in Indiana. I just don't know what could be here for her," Jason replies, and scrubs a hand over his face. Upon closer inspection, he looks like he hasn't slept for days and he's in need of a shave. Lucky that his face is good-looking enough to hide it. Or unlucky, depending on your point of view.

"Sit down," Nadia says gently, and takes her brother's hat to hang up. Jason all but collapses into their client chair.

"Was she acting strangely at all in the past few days?" Peter asks. "Mysterious phone calls, going out at odd times, strange letters?" Nadia's the real brains of the operation, but Peter can hold his own when it comes to sussing out infidelity. He theorizes his talent comes from years of keeping his own love life a secret.

"We're not married _yet_ ," Jason says, sounding vaguely scandalized. "She still lives with her parents. I wouldn't know about any of that. Nothing seemed different, but..." He trails off with a helpless shrug.

Nadia looks up from her notes and asks, "You haven't been playing baseball again, have you?"

"No." Jason's tone is flat, tired. He flashes Peter an apologetic little smile. "Sorry, old joke between siblings. It's not very funny to anyone else."

"Not really funny to us, either." Nadia's smile is oddly tight-lipped. Peter decides not to ask until they're alone and have a few drinks in them. "I'm sorry for the failed joke. The city's a big place, Jason. We'll do our best, but I can't promise that we'll find her. You're welcome to stay with Peter and me while we search."

That little tidbit makes Jason sit bolt upright despite his obvious exhaustion. Peter mentally directs a stream of curses in Nadia's direction when Jason shoots him a glare that's pure murder. God save him from good Catholic boys. "I know our living situation is what you might call unusual, but it's just business convenience," Peter says with a sigh. "We were in danger of losing the office, so I moved into Nadia's spare room to help with rent. It cut down on my commute."

"I'm still waiting for my Prince Charming," Nadia says, dry as a good martini. "Peter belongs to another Snow White." Now it's Peter's turn to share a private joke with Nadia. When they first met on the acting circuit, they turned "Someday My Prince Will Come" into a rather inebriated duet to the rave reviews of their degenerate associates.

Jason's perfect jaw is still clenched, but he sighs and leans forward, burying his face in his hands. "I'd love a nap."

"Take my bed," Peter offers. "We're going to hit the streets, see what we can find."

"Something will turn up," Nadia says, kissing Jason's cheek. That's two surprises for the price of one: Nadia isn't one for affectionate displays or empty promises. The brutal honesty and cynical humor don't make her many friends, but they're two qualities Peter admires about her. She keeps his head from flying away into the clouds. In another life, they'd make one hell of a marriage.

As it is, they make a hell of a detective agency. Peter follows Nadia out the door and into the hot streets of the city.

*

Their first stop is Saint Cecilia's Parish in East Harlem. School isn't in session yet, so it takes them a few minutes to track down Sister Chantelle. They find her in the center of the action, of course, this time supervising a group of knitting nuns. "The nights will be turning cold sooner than you think," she's saying as Peter and Nadia walk in. Though the other nuns are sitting, Sister Chantelle is up and pacing, always in constant motion. "One baby in every twenty born here dies. I trust all of you not to underestimate this work's importance."

Monologue delivered, Sister Chantelle turns to Peter and Nadia. Of course she saw them the instant they arrived. Peter doesn't go to mass anymore, but he maintains a healthy respect for the all-seeing eyes of nuns. "Welcome, wayward souls," she says, and then her face lights up in a smile in spite of her no nonsense demeanor. Among themselves, Peter and Nadia refer to her as "the last merciful Catholic," a strangely named Negro nun devoted to spreading God's grace through charitable work. Her special affections are reserved for the lost and downtrodden; unsurprising that she's fond of Peter and Nadia as well as a useful contact when it comes to missing women. Working girls in New York City know they can always find a place to stay at Saint Cecilia's, provided they can make it through the neighborhood.

"Sister, we're wondering if you've seen this girl," Nadia says, showing her the photograph of Diane Lee. "My brother's fiancee ran off to New York City all the way from Indiana. She's Catholic, so there's always the chance that she'll make her way here."

Sister Chantelle shakes her head. "Haven't seen the likes of her. There's a few girls just moved to the city from the Midwest, but all Negroes. I'll keep an ear to the ground. What's her name?"

"Diane Lee," Peter answers, taking another look of his own at the faded photograph. It's just a shot of her head and shoulders, and she looks like any other pretty girl with dark hair. Without more clues, this case is locked tighter than Scrooge's safe.

"Diane Lee, Diane Lee, Diane Lee," Sister Chantelle murmurs, gazing at the picture. "I'll add her to my prayers. Did she leave your brother? Is she in trouble?"

"Who can say?" Nadia sighs. "I've never met her. Jason's always been popular with the girls, so it's hard to imagine him falling from her favor. They sounded happy in his letters."

"They always do." Sister Chantelle hands the photograph back. "And how have the two of you been? Still nothing but work, no time for the Lord?" Her words are stern, but the warmth of her smile never fades.

"The Lord doesn't have time for me," Peter replies, reprising their old debate. Sister Chantelle has never openly acknowledged his preferring the company of men, but she's one of the few people in his life who _knows_ , and one of even fewer who still holds him in high esteem. Part of Peter resents her for it, for giving him the faint hope that the Church he was raised in will ever welcome him in again. "Please don't quote scripture at me today. My heart can't take it."

Behind him, Nadia snorts at his sentimentality. "Thank you, Sister," she says. "We'd best be on our way."

As soon as she says her farewells, Sister Chantelle turns back to supervising baby blanket knitting with an eagle eye. "We didn't have to go so soon," Peter says as they exit.

"If I let you two talk long enough, you start getting maudlin about the life you could have had. Then you start wondering if you should marry me, and then I don't speak to you for days. We can't afford that while on the case." Nadia reaches into her purse and extracts a small compact, checking her lipstick in the mirror. "My next stop's the police department. Can you head back and make sure my brother eats something?"

"Wouldn't want you to miss a date with _Matthew_ ," Peter sing-songs, then holds up a hand to shield himself from Nadia's frown. Detective Matt Lloyd of the NYPD is the reason they've never seriously contemplated a marriage of convenience, even if Nadia refuses to make a move. Whenever Peter presses her, all she'll say is "large girls don't get lead roles" and spend the night brooding over a drink or four. Nadia talks a tough game, but the chip on her shoulder is from all the times she's been hurt, whether by showbiz or stupid men or (revealed after one drinking session) her mother.

"Skedaddle," Nadia commands. "We'll hit Wonderland tonight."

"All right, all right," Peter says with a laugh, not one for turning down more time with handsome men.

*

It's been far too long since anyone besides Peter has slept in his bed. Peter peeks in to check on Jason, who has collapsed facedown into bed, shoes still on. He must have left Indiana as soon as he found the note. Leaving him to sleep, Peter makes two heaping roast beef sandwiches, telling himself it's for Nadia's sake that he uses up the meat that was supposed to last them the rest of the week. Looking at Jason makes him feel seventeen again, head over heels for the captain of the basketball team. It's embarrassing for a war veteran and seasoned detective.

Then again, he's always been a sucker for hopeless cases. Peter eats his sandwich as he contemplates the case yet again, trying to find any reason to hope they'll find this girl in a crowd of million, and comes up with nothing. Just about the only things he has to offer Jason are a bed and a sandwich. He finishes his lunch and Jason still hasn't risen, so he carries the plate into his bedroom, figuring that Jason won't want to sleep all day.

It's lucky for him that the floorboard farthest from the bed is the one that creaks. Jason sits bolt upright in an instant, fists clenched, gaze darting from side to side. He's sweating from more than the heat, face pale under all that golden tan. Combat ready in a civilian world.

"Where'd you serve?" Peter asks quietly, holding out his hands to show he has no weapons, just food.

Jason closes his eyes, and Peter can see the effort it takes to slow his breathing. His heart aches. "The 1st Marine Division," Jason replies at last. Of course he was a damn Marine. He probably single-handedly led the troops to victory in the Pacific. _I have to hand it to you, you never dream small,_ Nadia once said of Peter's taste in men.

"I was in Europe with the 22nd Infantry Regiment," Peter says, carefully offering Jason the plate. He takes it with a mumbled thank you. "Still have a piece of shrapnel in my shoulder." Well, if he's having nightmares still, he probably doesn't want to talk about the war. "What are you studying at Notre Dame?"

"Economics," Jason answers around a mouthful of sandwich. He swallows. Peter tries not to watch the long line of his throat. "My father's a businessman. Boston-based, mostly."

"I had no idea your family lived so close."

Jason runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, making his bedhead even worse. "There's no love lost between Nadia and our parents, I'm sure you know. They didn't think acting was a respectable career and they certainly don't think a woman should be a private investigator."

"And you?"

"Nadia's the best person I know. Her career doesn't change that." Jason levels another glare at Peter, this one so icy Peter shivers despite the heat. "You better not be disrespecting my sister."

Peter's been living with Nadia for three years and he's still unsure how to navigate this conversation. "I don't--I can't," Peter says, stalling for time. Jason's expression begins to shift from cold to disbelieving, so Peter follows the age-old standby: the best lie is the truth. "My high school sweetheart died while I was overseas."

All of that's true, and the pain is still fresh enough that Peter has to close his eyes. He's omitted some key details, of course: his high school sweetheart was Michael Morris, captain of the basketball team; the basis of their romance was several torrid necking sessions behind their boarding school shed; and Michael was overseas as well when he died, killed in combat. Peter's hand automatically goes for the rosary he stopped wearing the day he found out Michael died. He forces his eyes open but can't bring himself to look at Jason, instead staring at the pattern of light and shadow on the floor created by his blinds.

If Jason presses, Peter has a story about a girl named Michelle who died of influenza, but all Jason says is, "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you." Peter sits on the bed next to Jason, playing with one of his cuffs to keep his hands from trying to pray again. "Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions about Diane?"

Jason reclines back onto the pillows, spreading his hands wide. He has large hands, his fingers long and blunt at the ends. "Fire away."

"Yes, well then, I'll do that," Peter says, because he's a nervous talker. A nervous talker who is apparently destined to live the cliche of being keen on your best friend's brother. "Tell me about her. How you met, what she's like, interests of hers. We're tipping off our main sources, legal and illegal, but anything you share might give us some idea of where to look."

"What she's like," Jason echoes with a lopsided smile. "She's, uh, she's hard to describe. Quiet, like I said. She goes to Saint Mary's, lives with her parents. I think she's studying literature but she really just wants to get married. Good Catholic girl, you know, my parents love her."

"If she's run away, I doubt it's to join a convent," Peter says, surprising a discomfited laugh out of Jason. "Can you give me anything more?"

"I would never have spoken to her, except." Jason hesitates, then leans forward. Peter is abruptly aware that Jason's hand is now scant inches from his thigh. "Except sometimes quiet people have this way about them. They look at you and your heart turns to water and they can see all the way through to the bottom. When someone looks at you like that, you have to talk to them."

The air whooshes from Peter like he's been punched in the stomach. He has to fight to pull in a lungful of hot, humid air. "That's beautiful," he croaks. He should flee the room before he does anything stupid, like try to kiss the sad expression off Jason's face, but he'll only embarrass himself if he stands up.

Jason turns his head, expression shuttering once more. Whatever window just opened he's closed again. "Diane's a swell girl."

"Sounds it," Peter says, and then pats Jason's knee in a sort of _hang in there, buddy_ gesture of solidarity. "We'll find her." Empty promises are far more Peter's domain than Nadia's, empty promises and mirrors and smoke.

*

Nighttime in the city features a different sort of choking heat, where people spill into the streets to escape stifling apartments and end up baking themselves on still-warm concrete. Peter wears a fedora regardless; it helps when he looks the part of the streetwise investigator, particularly where they're going, where his youthful face will get him any number of invitations. He fans himself in the subway station and wonders, as he always does at this time of year, whether he should move out to Wisconsin. Old Turner would set him up someplace nice.

"Wonderland isn't a nice place," Nadia tells Jason, who insisted on coming along. They let him because it can't be good for him to keep stewing by himself. Nadia came back from her rendezvous at the station pleased as punch but without any leads.

"I've seen worse," Jason says, and lights up a cigarette for the first time since he's arrived. Peter stares at him through the cloud of smoke and his hands itch for a cigarette of his own. He represses the urge.

The train ride to Wonderland is mercifully short, though they have to walk several blocks before the familiar pink neon sign looms above them. It's too fancy a sign for such a hole in the wall establishment, but Ivy maintains her artistic connections.

Zack is working the door that night, so they're able to pass through without any trouble. The inside of the club is like any other seedy nightclub in the city: dark, dirty, and desperate for a good time. There are peeling pictures of _Alice in Wonderland_ characters on the wall, like a nursery gone wrong. Peter asked once about the motif and Ivy told him that she was christened Alice, though there's no way of knowing the truth of that statement.

Naturally, Ivy is onstage in a red dress, crooning out a smoky arrangement of a Peggy Lee song. They'll have to wait until her song is over to ask her what she knows, but had they arrived before business hours, there's no telling how sober she would have been. Ivy drinks her demons away. Sometimes she pops the pills that Lucas, the other proprietor of this fine establishment, sells on the side. She's a star constantly on the verge of going supernova, too inconstant to land a steady gig off-Broadway despite her talent. The spotlight gives her temporary focus. Peter met her first, in those long-ago days when he thought he could sing for his supper, but the bulk of her friendship belongs to Nadia. Their relationship is inscrutable to outsiders, punctuated with snarling, bitter fights. They still adore each other.

"She's going to help me find Diane?" Jason asks, arching an eyebrow.

"There's no better dame for finding a girl who won't be found," Peter says. Ivy's the other side of Sister Chantelle's coin, one with a gift for discovering all the lost girls who come to New York to be stars and end up dancing in burlesque shows for bread. Ivy protects them when she can. The apartments upstairs are full of fresh-faced girls who are at least assured of a boss who won't cheat them or force them. _They're all somebody's baby,_ Ivy slurred to Peter over breakfast one day. _Count your lucky stars you'll never have children._

The woman is a portrait of contradictions, and her partner Lucas acts as her genial sidekick. He's off in the corner, entertaining what looks to be a pair of cops. Despite his constant state of inebriation, paying off the police remains one of his few talents.

The song ends to great stomping and cheering. Ivy waves on the next act before she steps offstage, making a beeline for their trio. "Who's this handsome gent?" she coos.

"Ivy Robinson, meet my brother, Jason McConnell," Nadia says. "Put your wiles away, he's looking for his lost love. Name of Diane Lee. Have you seen her?" She passes Ivy the photograph, now worn further at the edges from all the recent handling.

"You know information doesn't come free," Ivy says. She breaks into a peal of bright laughter when Jason reaches for his wallet. "No, no, put that away! I wouldn't dream of taking your money. It was a great loss to the stage when Peter and Nadia stopped performing, so I always make one of them do a little number."

"You used to sing?" Jasons asks, directing a quizzical look at Peter.

"You'll get to hear me tonight," Peter sighs. "It's my turn." In truth, he still enjoys singing; it was the world of showbiz that he couldn't stand. Solving crimes was more palatable.

"Swell!" Ivy says. "This lady of yours is real pretty, Mr. McConnell, but I'm sorry to say I haven't seen anybody who looks like her. I'll give Nadia a ring the minute I hear anything."

"Call me Jason, please," Jason says, with the kind of effortless charm Peter could never hope to pull off. Pretty girls can sense something off about him.

"Oh, I will." Ivy drops him an elaborate wink and then seizes Peter's hand. "Come on, let's get you on my stage. You two, go have a drink. Tell the bartender it's on me."

Ivy tugs Peter along, practically throwing him onstage for all her small stature. She steps up to center stage and announces, "Ladies and gentleman, guest starring yet again this evening is our very own golden-throated gumshoe, Peter Simmonds! I think we're all in the mood for a touch of royalty--Nat King Cole, that is."

The audience breaks into good-natured applause. Ivy sashays her way over to the piano, motioning him forward. Peter won't ask how Ivy knew that he memorized "Nature Boy" the instant he heard it on the radio--Ivy's been in the business long enough to read people well, though she has yet to apply the skill to her love life.

" _There was a boy, a very strange enchanted boy,_ " he begins, and the grime of the club melts away like some desert mirage. The band follows his lead, and Ivy weaves a wordless harmony underneath, achingly sweet. Singing and Michael, those were the two things that brought him closest to God, and there's only one he can touch anymore. Still, when Peter sings _a little shy and sad of eye but very wise was he_ , he finds himself thinking of Jason, of their electric moment earlier, when he felt his own heart turn to water. If Ivy is a fool for love then so is he, falling fast and far for a man engaged to be married. Love makes children of them all.

Yet there is no space in the song for cynicism. Ivy and the band bow out for the final repetition of the last two lines, leaving Peter alone with purity distilled to song: _The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return._

*

The next few days are a blur of subway rides to all corners of the city, showing hotel owners and barkeeps Diane's picture to no avail. Peter takes himself out of the apartment as much as possible, unable to watch Jason's descent into melancholy, the slow sad way he smokes and smokes and never eats. After the first night, Jason insisted that Peter take back his bed while he took the couch, and Peter spent a night enduring a bed that smelled like Jason. Next morning, he brought his sheets to the laundromat.

"What heat!" Sister Chantelle says on his next visit, fanning herself. "Feels more like July than just about September. What's wrong, Peter?"

Ivy is more concerned for Jason the next time he pays her a call. "That poor man! I just know that girl's left him in the lurch. There's no accounting for taste."

"Sad, sad, sad," Matt says when Peter stops by the station, because they _are_ friends. "I don't like to see such things happen to a nice family like that. How's Nadia holding up?"

Peter and Nadia are left to circle Jason, his grief making them ghosts in their own apartment. Peter can't bring himself to turn the radio on past a whisper lest he disturb Jason's thoughts. Torn between the reality of Jason's engagement and the desire to take Jason into his arms, he does nothing to comfort him at all. He watches Nadia grow steadily more angry at the disappeared Diane Lee, at the unconvincing platitudes that are all Peter is capable of offering.

"I'm going out for cigarettes," she snaps one day, despite the noon sky laid over the city like the lid of a saucepan. "Do something, Peter! Break it to him gently. You know I'm not gentle."

"He's not my brother and you don't smoke," Peter protests, but with no bite. The weather has seen to that. "Pick me up a carton?"

"Always." Nadia rewards him with a kiss on the cheek.

He finds Jason draped over the couch, an unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth. "It's my last one," he explains, staring up at the ceiling.

"Nadia's getting you more."

Thick, uncomfortable silence falls. Peter decides that Nadia will forgive him if he smokes indoors with her brother, just this once. As he leans over Jason, lighter in hand, he says, "The city's a huge place. Enormous, like it's the belly of the whale and we're all Jonah."

"And Diane's vanished into it," Jason says, blowing smoke. "I'm not stupid, you know."

"You're nowhere near stupid." Peter lights his own cigarette and settles on the arm of the couch. "You're a romantic. There's no shame in that."

"I'm not a romantic. You're the romantic. McConnells have the romance beaten out of them at a young age." Peter casts Jason a sidelong glance, wondering if he's been drinking. Can't blame him if he has. With gaze still fixed on the ceiling, Jason says, "Tell me the story of how you met my sister. All she'll say is you helped her out and then stayed on."

"That's because she'd have to blow her own horn. You know how she is," Peter says. Lucky for Jason, this is a story he enjoys telling. "Nadia established herself when all the men were away at war. Then they came back, and all of a sudden there were all these people telling her that women weren't meant to be detectives. The owner of a restaurant got shot in front of all his patrons, but nobody could name a suspect and the police were stumped, so his son put out an ad for a PI. Nadia applied and got laughed out of the place, so she concocted a story about being somebody else's secretary and asked her friend Ivy if she had any actor friends who'd like to play detective. I happened to be in a show with her at the time."

"So you two cracked the case, and you've been together ever since." There's a faint smile on Jason's face, the first sign of happiness Peter's seen from him in days.

"No, sir, Nadia cracked it. She was the one who noticed the parrot." Peter pauses for dramatic effect.

Sure enough, Jason asks, "The parrot?"

"The restaurant owner trained the parrot to greet each customer by name. All the witnesses thought it was saying, 'Robber! Robber!' Nadia figured out it was really saying, 'Robert!' All I had to do was pretend the idea was mine. The police nabbed the guy and locked him up. That's how we crossed paths with Matt, too. That's the gent you want marrying your sister at last, not me."

"You should keep her secrets better," Jason says, wagging a finger at Peter from his prone position. "She keeps mine, no doubt she keeps yours."

"I'm sorry about your girl," Peter says, figuring now's as good a time as any to say it.

"I'm sorry about yours." When Jason laughs, it sounds more like a sob. "Give me a day or two and I'll be out of your hair."

"Take your time," says Peter, and lights up another cigarette.

*

"Have I got a tip for you," says a voice over the phone, one that takes Peter a minute to place. Strange to hear it during daylight hours.

"I'll be over quick as I can, Ivy," he says, keeping his voice hushed. He doesn't want to get Jason's hopes up in case this is nothing, or in case Diane really has run off to be a burlesque dancer. Jason plans to leave tomorrow, and he seems surprisingly at peace since his conversation with Peter the other day. Nadia was so pleased she didn't even shout at them for smoking in the apartment.

He pushes through businessmen on their way to work tourists on the last legs of summer vacation, his heartbeat a steady chant of _Jason, Jason, Jason._ It will do him good when Jason leaves, let him get back to what passes for normal. He wakes whenever Jason has nightmares on the couch, dreaming of a war that hasn't ended.

Wonderland is an even sadder scene in the daytime, when the light glares over every dirt-encrusted surface. Ivy's sitting on the bar counter when he walks in, barefoot and still dolled up from last night, her makeup a series of colorful smears on her face. "I made us all a drink," she giggles. She pushes a tumbler in his direction and hiccups.

Now Peter is gladder than ever that he didn't let Jason know. "Are you sure you have a tip for me?" he asks. He hates seeing Ivy like this. Hates the way she morphs from a glowing performer to a gin-soaked mess overnight.

"That floozy is working at a club. Her stage name is--is--it's Artemis. Diane, Artemis. Very literary of her. You told me she studied literature." Ivy takes a gulp from her own glass. "Where's Jason?"

"The apartment," Peter answers distractedly. "What club? I want to speak to her."

"How should I know what club?"

"Well, who did you hear this from?"

"I don't know," Ivy mutters, lips drooping into a pout. "I was hoping you would bring Jason. Did you know that he couldn't keep his eyes off me when we were onstage? I think he's ready to move on."

Jealousy flares inside Peter, big and bright as fireworks. Ivy has a way about her that most men find irresistible, all doe eyes and smoky laughter, the promise of innocence and experience in one red-clad package. He likes Ivy too much to call her easy, but she _is_ , and it's all too easy for him to picture her wrapped around Jason, her lipstick staining his mouth. "That's not true," he says, fists clenching.

"Oh, he was most assuredly staring," Ivy replies.

"No, about Diane," Peter says, shaking his head to chase the images from his mind. "You made up a story so you could comfort him. I won't ever bring him here again." His voice rises with every word, because even if it's not Ivy, it will be some other woman in Jason's future, some mouth that's not his kissing Jason.

"Oh, Peter." The timbre of Ivy's voice has changed entirely, heavy with booze-soaked sympathy. Peter looks up, startled, to find her studying him with an almost lucid expression. "All you had to do was say you liked him."

"There's no tip," Peter says.

"There's no tip," she agrees with another sip of her drink. "But you know I'm right. Wherever she is, she's with another man. Who do you think Nadia would get madder at for sleeping with her brother, you or me?"

"Both of us," Peter says, then seizes the drink she poured him, downing it in one go. He should have seen through the million holes in Ivy's little myth, seeing as he's a _professional detective,_ but instead he lost his cool in a fit of jealousy. He should ask Sister Chantelle to pray for him more than she already does. He is, as they say in the military, fubar.

*

"You've been gone a while," Nadia observes when Peter returns from Wonderland, stumbling safely home despite a few more drinks with Ivy and the looming threat of thunderclouds overhead. Nadia sniffs. "And you've been having yourself a good time. I hope you're still up for Jason's farewell dinner tonight."

Peter's mind latches on to the key word in those sentences. "Where's Jason?"

"He was starting the mope of the lovelorn again, so I sent him to the corner store to get his own damn cigarettes this time." Nadia rolls her eyes, the familiar gesture tempered this time by an affectionate smile. Lord, Peter loves this lady, so full of thorny sweetness she's no mere rose, she's a full blown rosebush. Would that she were the McConnell sibling of his heart.

"Somebody ought to marry you," Peter blurts. Nadia's smile fades and her hands go to her hips. "No, I'm sorry, it's just--Jason--"

He's on the verge of telling her everything, so of course the phone rings, shattering his pitiful attempt at honesty. Nadia answers the phone, her cheeks scarlet with the wrath that is about to rain down upon Peter, more righteous than any sermon he's ever heard.

"What?" Nadia asks. The word lands in the still air and sinks.

Peter knows something is terribly wrong when that color in her cheeks drains away and her knuckles go white around the phone. She keeps nodding, though whoever's on the other end can't see her. Peter taps out a cigarette just for the security of holding it as the conversation stretches on and on.

"That was Matt," Nadia says, hanging up at long last. "They have a body they can't identify in the morgue. It's a girl with dark hair. You call for a cab, I'm going to get my brother."

Peter obeys automatically, dialing for a taxi with shaking fingers. It's on his way down to the curb that he wonders whether he and Nadia should have switched roles. No, no, Jason is her brother. But she's never known the special agony of losing a lover to death. Your heart gets buried by the avalanche you never sense coming. It takes him three tries to light the cigarette he still has clenched between his fingers. Michael's mother wrote him to inform him of the family's loss, since they were such good friends in school. Her handwriting was so soft, so motherly, but the words jutted from the page, sharp enough to slice his hands.

"Let it not be her," he says, looking up to the sliver of bruised sky he can see between buildings. "Please, God, let it not be her." Familiar prayer recitations bubble to his lips, but he swallows them all. No reason to tempt authority to discard a heartfelt plea. If he doesn't pretend to be a Catholic, then maybe heaven will listen.

Jason and Nadia arrive just as the cab pulls up, their faces equally pinched. They all crowd into the back seat and Nadia gives the address. She has Jason's hands pressed tight in hers, and after a moment, Peter squeezes a hand around Jason's shoulder. They flank him as if to stave off the horror waiting ahead. They say nothing on the way to the station, nothing on the way through the doors, still nothing as a grim-faced Matt leads them down to the morgue.

"She washed up from the river a few hours ago," Matt says as they descend the staircase. "Judging from the bruising, she was beaten, then strangled. No guarantees that she's your girl, though. We've just got to explore every avenue."

Peter was overseas for Michael's funeral. He remains young, smiling, alive in his memory.

"Here we are," Matt says, and tugs off the sheet covering the body.

Peter has seen enough dead bodies, both in the war and in the city, that this girl's body is another sad fact. Nothing more, nothing less. His chest loosens and he takes a deep breath. Thankfully, he's smoked enough to be deadened the the smell. The corpse is naked, female, face bloated and bruised beyond recognition. Her hair is indeed long and dark, like Diane Lee's in the lone photograph of Jason's. It's anyone's guess, so he looks to Jason.

"Jason!" someone cries out, and Peter can't be certain whether the cry issues from himself or Nadia. Jason has fallen to his knees, face buried in his hands, breath coming in shallow gasps. He's muttering something in between gasps.

"I guess that answers my question," Matt says, hushed. "I'm so sorry."

Peter kneels down to listen to Jason, gesturing to Nadia not to touch him. "They're dead, they're dead, they're dead..." Jason is saying.

"Where are you?" Peter asks, carefully.

A stuttering breath, then: "Okinawa. They told us to shoot everyone. They're dead, they're dead..."

"We're in New York City," Peter says, keeping his voice as level as he can despite the tears prickling his eyes. There was a boy in his unit who didn't make it home because of shell shock exactly like this. Turner almost talked him back to safety--almost. "Right now we're in New York City. Do you want to go back to the apartment?"

"You can smoke inside if you want," Nadia says, voice rough but steady, taking her cue from Peter. "I never liked when Dad did it at home, remember?"

Gradually, Jason's breathing slows down to something resembling a normal pace as Peter and Nadia keep up a light conversation. At some point Peter risks a glance away from Jason and finds Nadia clutching Matt's arm for support, her face twisted in pain. For the first time, he sees the resemblance between the McConnell siblings. He's never seen her like this, not even when confronted by the murdered remains of a corpse, but Jason needs him more and she has Matt. It must be the sight of her brother doing this to her. The brother she always spoke of in such glowing terms, not so perfect after all.

"Nadia's just going to take care of a few things at the station," Peter says when Jason has been quiet for a few minutes. She and Matt nod in immediate understanding and head upstairs. "I'm going to take you home. Okay?"

"Okay," Jason whispers, and takes Peter's outstretched hand. Peter's heart contracts painfully, like it's his heart in Jason's hand instead, his heart leading Jason out of the morgue and back to the land of the living.

*

Thunder punctuates the cab ride back to the apartment. Thunder and no rain. Peter drums on the legs of his pants, rolls the bills for the driver as tight as he can, drags his fingers against the staircase wall. Anything to keep from offering Jason the only comfort he's learned how to give in the face of death. He's going to go mad.

"It's going to rain soon," Jason says in response to Peter opening all the windows in the apartment.

"We'll never get to sleep without a breeze," Peter says, one stifling breath chasing another. The air goes down like water in his lungs.

"I won't sleep tonight." Jason laughs like a sick man and starts pouring drinks, familiar with the liquor cabinet in a way that stirs Peter to abrupt alarm. "I get nervous sometimes. The docs said go to Notre Dame, it's quiet out there."

Peter accepts his drink as the first drops of rain patter against the fire escape. "Was it?"

"Like a church." The sick man's laugh tears its way out of Jason's throat again and he chases it down with a slug of whiskey. "You ever wonder if you're already in hell?"

"No wondering. I _know_ the city in August is hell," Peter replies, taking a drink from his own tumbler. Whiskey neat, burning every bit of the way down. His face is hot.

"September." Jason points to the clock on the mantel. "It's just about September first."

They finish their drinks. Then they have another drink, then another, then they pass the bottle back and forth until it's empty. Throughout the drinking run a series of events, playing out like film reels in the wrong order. The raindrops transition to sheets of water, clouds laying down their burdens. They try to tell each other the joke about the generals and muddle the punchline. Peter almost breaks a glass but Jason catches it. The clock strikes eleven, then midnight. They stick their heads out of windows, whooping at the lightning, and retreat breathless back to the floor, wet shoulders pressed together. The bottle empties. Peter's carton of cigarettes is rain-soaked, ruined.

"Gimme a light," Jason says, his sole remaining cigarette between his teeth. "I can share."

Peter almost tells him he looks good with something in his mouth. He lights the cigarette and laughs when Jason blows smoke in his face. "That's not sharing," he says.

Then Jason reaches over and puts the cigarette to Peter's lips. His fingers press down, firm. Peter takes a reflexive drag, sure his eyes must be wide as a virgin's. The smoke boils in his lungs and he coughs. Jason's hand falls away. The rain beats outside like the drum solo before the rest of the band kicks in.

"Hell with it," Jason says, and replaces the cigarette with his mouth.

The two of them taste the same. Ashes and alcohol. Peter hauls Jason closer by one lapel, sending the empty whiskey bottle rolling under the couch. Jason groans and leans further forward, his thumb tracing hot circles on Peter's inner thigh. Or it could be the cigarette. Maybe Peter's catching fire despite the storm.

There's a smoky sigh from one of them as Jason pulls away, lips red and slick with saliva. "I don't," Jason says, and Peter braces himself for rejection or stumbling explanation. "I think. Your bedroom."

"Oh," Peter says, and sweetens to the way Jason stumbles over his sentences. _Mistake,_ says the one small part of him beholden to neither lust nor booze. He wants so much more than Jason can give. Jason wants to feel alive after seeing death. This kind of thing happened in the war and nobody talked about it afterwards. Nobody made anything of it.

They reach the bedroom. Jason slides the lock home. Peter catches him against the door, hands on his chest, and makes a conversation of kisses: a brush over the mouth to say _hello_ , a deeper kiss to say _I want you_ , a kiss on the jawline to say _I have for so long_ , one to his neck to say _I think I'm in love with you_.

Jason gives a small, shuddering sound that Peter wants to translate to _Me, too._ Then he puts his hands on Peter's hips, thumbs threading through his belt loops, and kisses his forehead.

The tenderness is Peter's undoing. It's been so long since anyone touched him with any other purpose than quick sexual gratification. It's been too many alleyways and shadows. True, the shadows lie thick across his bedroom, but they know each other's names. Peter pulls Jason into his bed, laughing when Jason falls on top of him. Jason laughs, too, in a warm breeze across Peter's throat that nevertheless makes him shiver. Jason's laughter dies. Their next kiss is mouth to mouth and chest to chest and hips to hips, flush against one another and dizzy with gravity. The rain thrums a counterpoint outside, beading on the windowsill.

"I want," Jason murmurs as Peter strips him with efficiency despite the alcohol and the distraction. "It's been so long. I want..."

"Anything," Peter promises, reckless against Jason's bare chest. "Anything you need."

There's no response to that but a soft intake of breath, nearly lost in the rain.

After that, Peter takes Jason apart to put him back together piece by piece. He rolls atop Jason and works his way down his torso, leaving indentations with fingers and teeth, some future map for Jason to navigate the memory of pleasure. He chases away the ghosts of dead girls and choked desires. Pauses, fingers splayed over Jason's thighs. Jason smiles and Peter leans forward, shifting to brace himself against the bed, taking him in his mouth. The heat is welcome even in this weather, the burn better than whiskey. Peter melts away the ghosts of dead girls and falling bombs. This act of profanity is one of the few things that feels sacred to him after the war, his own small way of lighting a candle in the dark. _The communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body..._

Jason calls Peter's name when he comes. Peter presses his cheek to Jason's hip and thinks that he could go to sleep like this, despite his own aching need for release. Sex with a man might still be too much for Jason, but they could drift off like this and sleep without nightmares.

Then Jason's fingers at the nape of his neck become less soothing, more teasing. "Come here," he says, and Peter follows. Jason's body speaks to him in a language he's half-forgotten, one that tells truth by touch and verbal omission. His hands say to Peter, _Stay. Stay with me._

"Yes," Peter says, because the city has taught him to say what he means when it counts. "Yes, Jason, _yes_."

*

Peter jerks awake at no particular sound. The usual traffic hums outside in the street, only it rages like a hive of angry bees against Peter's skull. Too much drinking. He sits up, palms pressing into the mattress as he puts together last night's pieces. He's alone. Not a promising sign.

The headache has him moving gingerly through the motions of washing his face and then dressing. He doubts Nadia has returned, but he's not willing to chance an early arrival to the conversation they need to have. There are a hell of a lot of words he needs to exchange with both McConnells. Maybe he can swallow them down with a slice of toast.

When he hears Jason's voice in the kitchen, a dull ache behind his breastbone joins the throbbing headache. Jesus, he should know better than to trust the promises made by soft kisses and gentle hands. They're always broken by what it means to live in this world.

"I know, I know," Jason's saying. Peter sees the telephone pressed to his ear and retreats before Jason can see him, stomach rising at the idea of Jason flashing him a smile like nothing's happened. Unwillingly, he hears Ivy's voice in his head saying, _Did you know that he couldn't keep his eyes off me when we were onstage?_

"No, I don't think it had anything to do with your upcoming visit," Jason continues. "Or maybe it did. Now I feel like I hardly know Diane." A pause. "No need to come to the funeral. I'll see you at Christmas."

Jason hangs up the phone and Peter lingers in the hallway, watching. Jason slumps against the sink, a silhouette in the light glaring through the blinds, and mutters, "Of all times to be interested in my life." Like he's just had an ordinary chat with a nosy mother, made all the more irritating by a hangover.

Realization crashes into Peter in a wave, one terrible jolt that drags him under. Jason's not grieving for a dead fiancee. Peter's been trying to solve for one missing variable this whole time when really there are at least three, tangled and mysterious as the numbers on the stock market. He knows one of Jason's secrets now, but how much does anyone know the man? _She keeps my secrets,_ Jason said of Nadia, and Peter would go to her except for her mile-wide blind spot when it comes to her brother. He doesn't know how and he doesn't know why, but they've been duped.

For the first time in months, Peter feels cold.

"Peter," Jason says with a smile. It looks unpracticed, real, but Peter can't be sure of anything. "I made coffee."

"Thanks," Peter replies, forcing a smile of his own. He doesn't act anymore, but he hasn't forgotten how to play a part. The coffee mug is a good prop, one that means he doesn't have to talk too much. His heart still stops when Jason lays a hand over his.

"Jason--" he starts, and for the second time in two days, he's interrupted by the jangling of the phone. "McConnell and Simmonds," he answers out of habit. This line isn't their office one, but half the time it's business anyway.

"Hello, Peter. How's Jason doing?" Matt asks.

"Better." Well, it's not a lie. Peter pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "You want a statement, don't you."

"You know how official business goes. Up to my ass in paperwork."

"We'll swing by ASAP."

By this point Jason has washed and dried his own coffee mug. He puts it away on its shelf, directing an inquisitive raise of his eyebrows at Peter. "What was that?"

"Matt--Officer Lloyd--needs an official statement from you." When Jason goes pale, Peter adds, "You don't have to see the body again. They just need an actual confirmation that it's Diane Lee. On the official record. Legal issue."

It's possible that he's stressing the legal aspect to see what Jason will do.

There's a mere half-beat of hesitation before Jason's model GI smile twists his face. The change is fascinating, the difference invisible to all except those who have seen him truly happy. Or at least wearing one less mask, Peter reminds himself, because there's still something _wrong_ about the story Jason's trying to pass off as truth. "Of course," Jason says. "That will be fine."

He's fine but distant on the ride to the station, no hint of what they shared the night before or even this morning's touch in the kitchen. His shoulders are straight as he walks into the interview room, and Peter half-expects him to salute the officers on duty. Jason looks, as promised, fine.

Which is why Peter drops his second cup of coffee when Matt comes out to tell him that they're holding Jason for further questioning in the murder of Jane Doe, allegedly Diane Lee.

*

"--then they kicked me out before I could cause more of a scene," Peter finishes. His fists are jammed into his pockets and his feet tap a restless rhythm on Wonderland's floor. Nadia mirrors his actions nearby, her chin jerking as she shakes her head with each new word.

"What kind of scene?" Ivy wants to know. "You're not the type for scenes. Jason doesn't seem like the type for murder."

"That's because he isn't!" Nadia snaps, voice rising. " _They_ aren't."

"Shouting the same thing as Nadia," Peter says. He waves away the drink Ivy offers. He has to be sober for this. He stills Nadia's pacing with a light touch on her arm, gentle enough for her to shake off if she wishes. "But Nadia... we both know there's something wrong with his story."

Nadia turns to him, mouth open, then visibly bites back on her angry words as her detective's eyes take him in. Shadows under his eyes, deeper than usual. His shirt, missing a button from its hasty divestment last night. Getting kicked out of the station, when Peter has always been the steady presence to her fiery nature. Her mouth tightens. "It was--strange to see Jason serious about a girl. He was always so busy with sports when we were in school together."

Peter lets a fraction of the tension drain from his body as he leans back against the bar. Nadia knows about Jason the same way she knows about him. Good. "Then he left for the war," he prompts.

"Then he signed up," Nadia replies, with a glare that says she knows exactly what he's doing. "He got his honorable discharge and headed straight to Notre Dame on the GI Bill. Our father went there, our grandfather went there, you get the picture. When he started seeing Diane, I could never read the letters too closely." Her bitter laugh sounds like her brother's, too. Peter startles at the sudden connection; he's heard both enough times. "Whether he was serious about wanting to marry her or not, he had to be leading the girl on."

Peter's fingers curl back in toward his palms, nails biting his skin. "You thought he was willing to go that far."

The look she gives Peter cuts him to the bone. There's no spark of temper in it, just pain. "Yes," Nadia admits. "He's always wanted to make everyone happy. And he's not like you and me, he worries about his soul."

Ivy glances from Nadia to Peter, then downs both of their untouched drinks. "Jesus. A criminal for a partner and a criminal for a brother." Her smile is crooked. "You might've told me."

Peter braces himself for the inevitable explosion of temper, but to his surprise, Nadia just laughs. Dames and their odd friendship games. "Thank you, Ivy," she says. "Lying to a girl, trying to make himself something he's not. Those are things I could see Jason doing. Not killing a girl."

_They told us to kill everyone._ Jason's words burst in Peter's mind like sour cherries. He draws his cheeks in at the taste. It's all too easy to spin out possible scenarios: Diane discovers Jason's secret after an indiscretion, flees to New York City, Jason follows, Jason kills her when she threatens to expose him... It's a variant on an old storyline, and doubtless the script Matt's following, just without a certain key detail.

But what indiscretion? _It's been so long,_ Jason said last night. Everything that followed shortly (very shortly) thereafter confirmed the statement.

The facts don't point to murder, even if they don't point to Jason being in love with his fiancee, either. Peter has the second drink Ivy poured him halfway to his mouth before he recollects the time of day. He gnaws on his thumbnail instead. Could be Jason had another nervous fit in the station and the police decided that one crazy maybe murderer was better than no suspect at all. But no, Matt's a better officer than that. Might be the only one.

"Could be that they were friends," muses Nadia. "If she just ran away and found herself in a bad part of the city..."

"Jason would _care_ ," Peter says. The answer is just beyond his thoughts. He strains forward. "Whatever's been troubling him, it's not Diane. I heard him on the phone with your parents. They were planning to visit. When he hung up..." And then inspiration flashes, electric.

"Nadia," Peter asks, and his fingers close around the answer at last, "has anyone you know ever met Diane Lee?"

Nadia opens her mouth, about to reply in the affirmative, then frowns. "No. Neither have our parents." She pauses and Peter waits. _Come on, Detective McConnell._ Her eyes widen and she continues, "You think there _is_ no Diane Lee."

Peter nods, and it's his turn to press his lips in a grim line. "Get me on the phone with somebody at Saint Mary's College and I'll prove it."

*

It's a weekday and lunch hour hasn't yet struck in the Midwest, so it takes a matter of minutes to confirm that no one by the name of Diane Lee attends Saint Mary's College, though there is an elderly secretary by the name Sarah Lee, is he looking for her? Peter says no and hangs up the telephone. The expression on his face must say everything, because Ivy takes the phone to call them a cab.

"I am going to _kill_ him," Nadia repeats over and over on the way to the station. The twists she gives to her handkerchief match the ferocity of her tone. "How could he? Why would he think...?"

Peter rolls down his window. The worst of the humidity cleared with the rain, but the inside of the cab is stuffy. "Not everybody can lose himself in a city."

Her words pause, but her hands still twist the handkerchief. "We haven't lost ourselves. We've become ourselves."

"Could we be ourselves anywhere else in the world?" Peter's voice catches on the question. He lights a cigarette and holds his hand outside the window.

A true New Yorker, Nadia asks, "Where else would we ever want to go?"

Freeing Jason takes more than a simple phone call. Nadia takes over, blending concerned sister and skilful investigator until the people at the main desk fetch Matt for her. Peter leans against the wall and smokes his cigarette. He doesn't have a place here beyond seeing justice done. This is one of the few times he's been able to solve a case with no one harmed save himself. He should cherish it.

Matt motions for them to follow him. Peter stubs out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. "I don't know how to get him out of this without more questions," Matt hisses as soon as they're away from the central hub of activity. "There's no reason for him to make up a girl, no reason for him to pretend to recognize a dead girl. If he's playing games with the law, he'll be ticketed at least, and if he's going crazy, then he should be locked up in the loony bin. Don't _look_ at me like that, Nadia."

"I'll look at you however I want as long as you're talking about my brother like that." Nadia bites off words like a rifle.

"There are rules! However much I--look, I can't just let Jason walk out of here without making sure I won't have to bring him back again." Matt fumbles inside his jacket and Peter hands over his lighter. "Thanks. You gotta give me something better to tell my boss."

"A cover story," Peter says. "Will we have time to brief him?"

"Not necessary. I'll write it all down in an official report. And you'll owe me big."

" _We'll_ owe you," Nadia mutters.

"No, just Peter."

"Well." A trace of a smile touches Nadia's face. "We had just discovered that Diane is... working in a club near Wonderland, but with plans to head south. Jason was distraught. Seeing things. He took her loss so hard."

She's had practice lying for her brother, Peter observes. He takes up the slack. "A case of nerves isn't unusual for a veteran, especially one under the kind of stress Jason's been living with. It was all a mistake. A perfectly understandable mistake."

"Perfectly," Matt echoes. He tilts his head to one side, considering. "He's got no criminal record to speak of. Not even a speeding ticket." Nods to himself. "Yeah, yeah, I think I can make this work. I'll put in my report that he's paying a visit to the doctor. Nothing a little rest won't cure."

"All's fair in love and bureaucracy." Now Nadia's words are crisp, professional. She always looks her best in the role of detective, like she fits into her own skin at last. "Let's go fetch Jason."

And just as suddenly as the whole strange affair began, it's over. Jason has his most polite smile on when he returns with Matt. He insists on shaking hands with all of the officers on duty, commending them for their service. He laughs with them, apologetic about worrying his sister. You know how it is. Things will be all right in the morning.

Peter marvels at the act. It drops for just an instant when they step outside, when Jason looks up into the afternoon sky, fetid with traffic fumes. He closes his eyes, adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. It's some kind of prayer. Peter knows what it looks like to pray to a god who won't hear you.

*

They haven't bought more whiskey, so Peter makes friends with a bottle of rum after they return. He takes it to his bedroom and drinks until his ears ring, drowning out the argument Nadia and Jason have the moment the door shuts. When the din inside his head stops, the argument is over. He takes it to mean they've gone out for a drink and settles back against his pillow.

"I wish you would talk to me."

No such luck.

"We wish a lot of things."

Peter shouldn't have said anything, because Jason takes it as an invitation to step into his bedroom. He shuts the door behind him and Peter closes his eyes at the memory of Jason's hands, firm and gentle by turns. A few days ago, Jason talked about falling in love with the people who can see right through you. Well, Jason's heart is safe from Peter.

"Nadia already yelled at me." Jason's smile is too crooked to be anything but real. He sits on the edge of the bed and Peter draws back instinctively. The smile falters.

Peter opens and closes the blinds, staring out the window rather than face Jason just now. "You lied to everyone. Your own sister thinks you're capable of marrying someone you don't love just to save face."

Jason flinches. Good.

"You don't even have to explain yourself to me, because I already know you," Peter continues, softer now that he's won this bitter little game. "After the war, things were fine for a time, and then there was question after question about when you were going to settle down. My mother asked the same. Unlike you, I told her the truth. She's living in the suburbs somewhere, pretending her son died in the war." He opens the blinds. Closes them. Opens them again. "You made someone up. Played the part of the dutiful son. You didn't think that your parents would want to meet her." He's talking too much, cramming words in the space between them to drive Jason away. Jason _should_ be running. He invented a woman to get away from his problems, for Christ's sake.

"You don't know them." Jason slumps, back against the wall, forcing himself into Peter's field of vision. "They don't care what Nadia and I do as long as we do the McConnell name proud."

Jason does try to be a good Catholic. Maybe this is his confession. Peter asks, "So why try to please them?"

"You tell me." Jason turns his head to look at Peter. Sarcasm is a new look for him, a curl of his lips and a sharp angle on one eyebrow. "You're the detective."

"You never meant to lie about that dead girl," Peter says. Jason's eyes widen. Peter's good at disarming Jason: hit him where it hurts, steal his weapons. He allows himself a brief rush of satisfaction. The suspect, surprised that his motives are so easily explained. "In the morgue, you never once said it was Diane. The original plan was to pretend Diane had run away and resign yourself to bachelorhood. But there was your case of nerves, and then there was my story about the dead sweetheart, and you thought, well, perhaps. But you don't like lying to authority and Matt caught you out."

Now it's Jason's turn to stare out at nothing, only in his case, it's the closet on the opposite side of the room. He touches the cross around his neck. "I thought about becoming a priest. I would never have to marry. I might redeem myself somehow."

And what can he say to that? Peter can remember the comfort of faith, even if he can't believe anymore. WIth the sun illuminating his hair, Jason could be one of the saints, lit up with God's grace. Like everything else in the city, it's a lie. Peter shuts the blinds and shifts closer, just enough to show he's listening.

Jason closes his eyes and confesses, "I can lie to everyone about everything, but I can't lie to God. These--feelings, they're not--I can't pray them away." His voice drops to a whisper. "When I look at you, I don't want to."

_And your heart turns to water._ Peter clenches his fists, searching for his big city cynicism. He looks from Jason to the bottle of rum on the dresser and back to Jason. "Have you been drinking?"

"Some. With Nadia. Helps to smooth things over." Jason nudges Peter's knee with his own. "The city's a bad influence, but I like the honesty."

"It's just a different kind of crooked," Peter says. Quieter: "I stopped praying when people started dying around me. The world is so much sicker than what I feel for you." The words _I don't belong to the Church anymore_ sit on his tongue, but he can't tell them to a man who still hopes for redemption. Redemption from the Church, the organization of old men who hate and one nun who loves. Peter can't say whether God cares about their small lives. He kisses Jason instead, uses his tongue to sweep the words into Jason's mouth. It's benediction, not passion, or so he tells himself.

"I want to finish my degree at Notre Dame," Jason says, but keeps his hand pressed against Peter's cheek. Peter breathes. His heart has already left his body. Jason can't touch it. Breathes. "But then I want to come back. If that's all right."

"I love you," Peter says before his brain catches up to his heart, which isn't gone from the room at all. Jason's whole body tenses, but he stays put. "I--sorry. Of course. If you're not too worried about your soul."

He means for it to be a joke, but Jason drags his thumb over Peter's lips, eyes dark with pain. "I worry about _your_ soul. Whatever's good about me belongs to the people I love. Nadia." The second sweep of Jason's thumb is gentler, a caress. "You."

Peter takes Jason by the hand and pulls him into his arms, tugging them both down until the end up outstretched on the bed, Jason's head pillowed on his chest. "Before you go, I know a nun you should talk to about your immortal soul." Strange how the man who's lied to multiple people, led them down multiple alleyways of confusion, is still the one innocent enough to believe, to find comfort in Sister Chantelle's words.

Jason props himself up on his elbows to direct a look at Peter. "I don't want to talk about nuns right now."

"Enough talking," Peter agrees.

After, Peter isn't able to sleep, despite Jason curled next to him. The streetlights are heavy outside and he cracks the blinds just enough to illuminate Jason's sleeping face. He has to memorize it. Peter's no fool--once Jason returns to the fold, it could be that he'll stay there. It could be that he'll confess all this tomorrow and spend the rest of his life trying to purge the little love he allows himself from his soul. It could be that one night he'll wake up with memories of war and take those memories over the side of a bridge. Anything could happen, once Jason is out of Peter's sight.

He must drift off, because the next thing he knows, it's dawn, colors streaking across the sky. The wind is blowing from the bakery's direction today, fresh and warm. Peter breathes deep. New York's a cruel place, but there are moments of what you might call serenity.

Jason stirs. "Morning," he says. He reaches for Peter without opening his eyes. That, too, is something to hold onto.

"Morning," Peter replies, and meets him halfway as the sun comes up.

**Author's Note:**

> Songs influencing the writing, in no particular order:
> 
> Judy Garland, "But Not for Me"  
> Duke Ellington, "I Got It Bad (And That Ain't Good)"  
> Amy Irving, "Why Don't You Do Right"  
> Nat King Cole, "Nature Boy"  
> Frank Sinatra, "Autumn in New York"


End file.
